


All Worn Down That Lonely Road

by RedHead, tempest_sonata



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV)
Genre: Feels, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Angst, Open to Interpretation, Post-slash?, and some emotional constipation, coldwave, injuries, mostly h/c feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-21 14:29:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7390897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedHead/pseuds/RedHead, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tempest_sonata/pseuds/tempest_sonata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An episode coda for Legends of Tomorrow 1x10 “Progeny”. Mick takes exception to Len’s stubborn refusal to deal with his injuries properly, and they both find themselves unsure how to deal with the fact that they actually care about one another.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Worn Down That Lonely Road

 

  

He wasn’t looking for Snart when he found him. He wasn’t looking to do anything except have a damn shower. After being locked up in that cell, having it out with Snart and his fists… reuniting with the team and reporting on the Hunters…Mick needed a shower. He could feel the grime and he’d never been fussy but a hot shower did wonders for sore muscles. And he was looking to get away from the bruises and worn expression on Snart’s face. Snart, who had quietly slipped away, unnoticed, until the group broke to take care of their nightly rituals.

The shower rooms were communal, gender-split (and wasn’t that a bitch), with long sinks and mirrors before hitting the actual showers, counters to put your shit. It reminded him of a classier version of his high school locker room, back before juvie, before Snart.

He wasn’t looking for Snart, but he found him anyway.

Snart glanced up in the mirror when Mick walked into the room, fluorescent light putting all his ugly bruises in contrast. He had looked like shit on the bridge when he’d been huddled in the back, isolating himself from the others.

In this room, still curled in on himself, somehow seeming smaller and more pathetic than he had any right to, he looked even worse than before. One eye wouldn’t even open now. The darkening bruise and massive swelling on his jaw was painful just to look at. Snart always had a high pain tolerance, but even this looked to be too much for him. His jacket was off, draped haphazardly on a shelf, and he had a wet cloth in his hand, stilled from dabbing at the cut on his forehead where Mick’s knuckles had split the skin. The white cloth was stained copper red.

Their eyes met. Snart looked away first. Mick was tempted to turn around and walk right back out but he wasn’t a coward. After a moment more of hesitation, Snart kept dabbing at his face, rinsed the cloth, and Mick didn’t miss the way he winced and tried to hide it when he brought it back up to his face, his lip this time, cut and swelling. Anger warred with concern. This wasn’t how things were supposed to be.

How long had he dreamed about it? Lifetimes? All the different ways he was going to kill Leonard Snart, all the different ways he was going to hurt him. How many nights, months, years spent fantasizing about his revenge, about how sweet it would taste? How many times had he pictured the other man broken and defeated?

And after all of it, every damn thing he’d been through, all it had taken to unwind his whole damn plot was the sight of Leonard bruised and battered under him, no fight in him, just looking up at Mick like some pitiful jackass waiting for him to finish it. Leonard Snart didn’t give up and give over for anyone, but there he was, underneath Mick. And he’d found something he hated even more than Leonard Snart, and that was to see Leonard defeated. It didn’t ease his bitterness. It didn’t ease his anger. He couldn’t revel in this victory.

He couldn’t kill Leonard. Not when every fiber of his being was screaming at Mick to protect him, to protect what was his. Any other feeling was crowded out by that instinct. But now, looking at his former—still?—partner, he realized that the anger he was feeling flowed from the clear lack of care Leonard was taking in himself.

The cut lip reopened from Snart trying to clean it. The other man rinsed the cloth again, the bruises on his knuckles standing out as he wrung out the cloth. Blood swirled down the basin, and something inside Mick snapped.

Something irrational—some fire and urge long forgotten, he’d thought—pulled inside of him, pushed his feet forward, heavier than Chronos’s strides, more controlled than Heatwave’s. He didn’t even hesitate to grab Snart by the shoulder where the man was pointedly ignoring him and force him to turn around, trapped between Mick and the sink. He tried to pretend he didn’t see the way Snart shrank in on himself. The tether that leashed his temper was fraying badly at the sight of Snart being so goddamn vulnerable.

“You’re gonna’ need some ice for those.” Mick bit the words out. It was obvious Snart hadn’t been to the med bay at all. Looked like he was trying to avoid it all together. Well, no more of that bullshit.

Snart looked like he was about to laugh, that mordant way he did, high and sharp and biting. But he didn’t—opening his mouth and closed it with a wince and it looked like it hurt, even that, just quirked his lips instead.

It pissed Mick off. He grabbed the cloth—it was cold—and started dabbing at the crusted blood on Leonard’s neck, jaw. He ignored the surprised look in the other’s eyes. Snart was shy to be touched, to touch others, and Mick was always careful about it before, even when he’d drape an arm around anyone else’s shoulder to laugh by them conspiratorially or pat them on the back, he didn’t invade Snart’s space. But he was done treating the other man like he was the exception to every rule.

“Med bay.”

Except fuck it all, Snart was still the exception to every rule or else he wouldn’t be alive and Mick wouldn’t be turning his jaw to get off the last of the blood.

“Hm?”

Mick grunted. “You need to go the med bay, let Gideon scan you and patch you up.”

He had focus now, more than he ever did as Heatwave. He knew what the bigger picture looked like. And it didn’t look a damn thing like letting yourself stay bruised and broken just because you only knew how to act like a martyr. Aka an asshole. Snart punishing himself was pointless, by Mick’s estimation.

“I’ll pass.”

That same stupid drawl. Mick wondered if his memories had been messed as Chronos—he hadn’t been able to remember the sound of Snart’s voice until he found him again.

“You think your body doesn’t need a once over?”

Snart pulled back from the cloth and Mick dropped it in the sink. The other man was flexing his right hand, glaring down at it. “I think I can manage without a hand from the old broad.”

Ha. Ha. Snart was a smartass and was trying to piss him off. But Mick had better control now. “You’re not as funny as you think you are, Snart.”

“That so?” Flippant, sharp. His voice was off. Probably because forming words with a rapidly swelling jaw was a challenge even Snart couldn’t overcome.

Mick was half-tempted to just smack him again for being an idiot, but even thinking about it fell flat. Any desire to kick the crap out of Snart had evaporated when he’d done just that. Now it was worse. He didn’t want to smack the other man, he was just using anger to push away what he really wanted—what he knew he wanted now because training and years at the Vanishing Point had taught him to recognize: inner self, inner desires. He just wanted to reach out and comfort Snart.

It was such a strange and unwelcome feeling that he didn’t know what to do with it. Life was simpler before he had clarity—lashing out was easier than figuring out what was in his head. He was too controlled to lash out now. Pushing it all aside, like he was doing in that moment, felt like the best course of action.

“Yeah, it is.” Mick took the opportunity to poke the other man in his ribs, hard, a targeted jab. When he winced hard and drew in a breath, Mick had his answer. “That’s what I thought.”

“I’m a big boy—sleep’ll fix it well enough.”

It was halfway between his droll act and his biting voice and Mick had to snort. Snart couldn't even keep his own distancing tactics straight he was such a wreck.

“Med bay or I’m draggin’ you there. You’re useless if your ribs stay broken.” It came out sounding angry, and Mick could take pleasure in that, at least. He almost full-on laughed when Snart started to draw himself up for an argument, sliding away from the counter he was leaning back against, planting his feet, just to wince and sway. But then he almost toppled and Mick almost reached out to catch him, but he slammed a hand down on the counter behind him and gasped in a sharp breath.

Mick let his hand drop, but his point was proven and they both knew it. Snart nodded once, face tight, and moved toward the door. He moved to grab his jacket off the shelf, winced when it stretched the muscles around his ribs, and Mick snatched it before he could bother. He draped it over his arm like collateral.

“Lead the way—” he had to check the urge to say ‘boss’. It had been years—but time was different at the Vanishing Point. While all the years in between past and present, all the years as Chronos had felt like the only true part of his life _while_ he was Chronos, it was starting to feel now like that was fading, as if being Chronos was another life entirely, a short trip or a dream, almost fuzzy around the edges.

He decided not to think about it and followed Snart down the hall. He was still curling forward, shoulders hunched in, and from the half-step behind him, Mick could see his knuckles were white where he was gripping his arm, (above the wrist where just a few days ago there had been a stump). He was sure he hadn’t seen him look so small since they were kids. It looked _wrong_ and Mick had to check the urge to reach out, to guide or lead him by his shoulder—by the collar on his sweater, dragging him along, anything. Tempting, but no.

 

[ … ]

 

Len wished he could think of something to say. Barbed words, ‘winning’ speeches, lilted questions—he was supposed to be good at all that. But he was coming up short, exhaustion pulling at the edges, too conscious of Mick, half a step behind, of his eyes on the back of Len’s neck.

He didn’t like how tense things were. Didn’t like to leave things unfinished. He had gone into the fight knowing he would lose. Ready for it. But Mick had relented, and suddenly he had no idea where that left them. Part of him wondered if Mick was planning to end things right now, while Len’s back was to him. Part of him was almost ready for it. He knew it wouldn’t happen, not now, not like this, but somehow just knowing that left him even more tense.

He missed their even footing. He missed knowing what to say, knowing where Mick’s head was at. He missed, very acutely at that moment, feeling strong. He was lost and too tired, exhausted by Mick’s anger, by his own pain. It took everything in him not to just try to walk to his room and curl up. Len was used to that; used to caring for injuries in private if Mick or Lisa weren’t around. But the one time he tried to turn away, a wordless growl from Mick had him moving back towards the med bay.

The pale white lights in the med bay were too white, the walls and smell too sterile. Len walked stood in the center of the room, winced against the stabbing pain in his head, and almost jumped when he felt a light touch to his arm. Mick’s expression tightened with disapproval. Len punched down the small flare of hope he felt when he thought he saw concern mixed with the irritation. He wasn’t sure what to do with Mick’s irritation, what to do with the odd concern mingling _with_ that irritation. Mick was just doing this because…well, Len wasn’t sure why he was doing this.

“Sit down, Snart.”

A rough command, impatient. Mick had been taking care of him for a long time, but he had never been so forceful. Len was the one who gave sharp commands, and Mick was the one who complied. Not because Mick had never been capable. Never that. Len gave orders to keep Mick safe.

“Let the AI do her thing.”

Mick’s voice was rough still, but a little softer. It sounded so familiar but somehow foreign. Len told himself they don’t have ‘familiar’ anymore, clamped down on the thought, and moved toward the med bed without arguing.

Maybe he should complain, should say something to poke at Mick’s anger. He was still running on instinct, and that instinct was pushing him to try to make things even with Mick. Something inside him telling him that if he found the right button to press, he’d set Mick off. Worry the hurt a little more, and he could break things entirely between them. Mick would finish him off this time, and then his debt to Mick would be repaid.

Len told himself he didn’t want that. Not really. It would be easier, but it wouldn’t fix anything. So he pushed away the urge to find Mick’s anger again, pushed down the voice telling him he deserves it. Because Mick was impassive as he snapped the medical cuff around Len’s wrist, and was just as stone-faced when he moved to stand there against the wall in a spot to survey the room, not too close. Just watching. Nothing personal.

This was all personal, but he could pretend. They’d both always been good at that, at least.

Gideon's voice startled them both. "Good evening Mr. Snart.” Len smothered his surprise after a second, resettling. Mick’s face settled back into the bland expression Len was growing to despise. “Please lay back so I can assess the full extent of your injuries."

Len found it in him to finally quip even as he complied, “I feel like we've done this before, Gideon.”

“Let’s not make these visits too frequent, Mr. Snart.”

At least the computer had a sense of humor. He wished his jaw didn’t hurt so much whenever he tried to speak, though, or to laugh. It made the wincing too obvious, especially because his attempts to hold himself stiff were falling apart as he laid down, sore in ways he knew meant business, even if he was trying to hide how much it hurt to put any pressure on his ribs, his back.

The scanning light slid along his body, with Gideon dutifully reciting the damage. She didn’t pull any punches, so to speak. Mick’s face went from impassive to...something that Len couldn’t quite name.

“I have detected several fractures, including hairline fractures along your jawbone and orbital bone. Three ribs on your left side are cracked and you have severe bruising in seven areas. Beyond the exhaustion, dehydration, and dangerously low blood sugar, you also appear to have a mild concussion.”

Fuck. So much for hiding any of that. At least he knew why it hurt to talk.

“Exhaustion, dehydration, blood sugar?” Mick repeated, surprising Len, even if he tried not to show it.

“That is correct, Mr. Rory. Mr. Snart has not yet eaten today and has slept only one third of what is recommended for an adult male of his age, averaged across the past week.”

“Didn’t figure you for a snitch, Gideon.” Len wasn’t sure what the protocol was on being pissed at a computer but he definitely was.

"You stopped taking care of yourself, Snart? Picked a fight when you were running on what—adrenaline? Bad ideas?" Mick looked at Len. Len tried not to look pathetic, stretched out on the bed, fighting the instinct to curl in on himself, hide his vulnerabilities. "But then, you were never planning on winning.” He didn't make it a question.

Len didn’t comment, didn’t say anything as Mick drew nearer—he just forced himself to stay rigid and let Gideon’s glowing lights and their warm and tickling feel do whatever they were doing.

“You get dumber since you marooned me?"

He couldn't stand it anymore. He just closed his eyes. “You’re not my mother, Mick. ‘N your bedside manner is crap.”

In another lifetime, Mick would’ve laughed. The loss of that laugh felt somehow the most cruel, the most absent. Instead, Mick just grunted.

“No one’s payin’ me to be nice.”

Len had nothing to say to that, and lapsed back into the safety of silence, his eyes closed. It was tempting to just let go and sleep right where he was. He hated to be out in the open, to be exposed, but the exhaustion was claiming him, and the heat from whatever Gideon was using on him was pleasant.

“I have managed to sufficiently tend to all broken bones and fractures. It will take several days for the bones to knit fully together and full function to return. The swelling will be down in a few hours, but the bruises, like the fractures, will take several days to heal completely."

Len opened his eyes, curious at the way medicine in the future worked, but not curious enough to ask. He didn't want to sit through an explanation right at the moment. He was cold again, the warm glow of the machine’s gone now, and he moved to sit. The pain was far less acute, sore but not sharp in all the wrong ways or hot in places he shouldn’t be. It just made the exhaustion more palpable than ever.

With what energy he had left, he moved to unhook himself from the monitors and the wrist cuff. He didn’t think Gideon was programmed to drug someone against their will, but he didn’t want to take the chance. Passing out in the med bay was looking less and less appealing.

“While you heal, I can offer you a prescription for painkillers. Your concussion has sufficiently healed to not require personal observation.”

“Clean bill ‘o health, thank you Gideon. I’ll leave the painkillers and get back to my bunk.” His jaw hurt a helluva lot less. Small favors.

“Take the damn pain meds. You’re useless if you’re in too much pain to move.”

“If I’m on meds, I might not be with it enough to be useful.” Len had never been a fan of drugs and Mick damn well knew it. But then, he didn’t know why he’d really expect Mick to care at this point.

“A small dosage of acetaminophen will help with the inflammation while leaving your mental faculties unaffected, Mr. Snart.” Gideon smoothly suggested.

"He needs some codeine," Mick said, his voice firm. That kind of chiding voice would never work on Len in a million years. But today was one of the rare exceptions, and dammit if the bastard didn’t know it. "Don't start with me, Snart."

After a brief moment, Len sighed and nodded, done with fighting, ignoring the fact that he was quelling under the imperious gaze that Mick had picked up at some point. He was just too sore to care, right now, and if it gave him another minute sitting there while Gideon pulled together a bottle of pills, he wasn’t complaining. Mick was only a foot from the bed, Len sitting now with his legs over the side, facing the other man.

The pill bottle, when it appeared in the slot in the wall, was promptly picked up by Mick, who poured him a glass of water to go with it. Len decided not to comment on that, glancing up for a second at Mick’s scowl, a sense of challenge almost stirring inside him, feeling some wry amusement about how it would be funny if after all that, Mick decided to send him to his grave over a couple of Tylenol.

But Mick didn’t, just stood there, waiting, and eventually Len’s humor faded and he took the pills, the water too. Mick’s eyes were on his hand, and Len knew what he was thinking about. It was the hand that shouldn’t exist any more but did, that felt like his and still like it wasn’t even a part of him. Odd how many similarities the hand and Mick had. He snorted at the line of his thoughts, wondered what Mick would think of them if he voiced them.

Gideon interrupted his thought process to tell him to drink at least another half liter of water before sleeping and to eat something to get his blood sugar up. He was pretty sure there was a threat of an IV drip somewhere in her spiel before she mentioned rest and he remembered he was tired. “And please return in the morning for a check up so I can expedite the healing process further.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Len had no intentions of returning, but it wasn’t worth arguing about.

Mick took back the empty water glass and he checked the urge to complain he wasn’t an invalid. It was that familiar and foreign feeling all over again, because how many nights had Len stayed up until dawn making a plan, staring at blueprints without eating, only for Mick to drag his ass to bed and cuss his complaints into the ground. This was just a high stakes version of every old poker hand they used to play.

This was almost familiar, and part of him didn’t want to get up and leave. He did his best to crush those thoughts cold. He and Mick weren’t having a ‘moment’ and it was stupid to think that it would be gone if he left the med bay, that it wasn’t supposed to end yet.

So he didn’t complain this time, as familiar as it might have felt, just watched as the other man shoved the pills in the pocket of Len’s jacket that he was still carrying. Len tried to decipher how he felt about that, reaching for it, but Mick pulled it out of his reach.

Len glanced up at him, but still couldn’t meet his eyes for more than a moment and looked away to nod. Fine. Mick could carry his jacket. They would both pretend it didn’t mean anything. Fine.

“Someone has to make sure you don't pass out on the way to your bunk,” Mick offered. “The team will blame me if you turn up dead in the hallway.”

Len didn’t bother to call him on the excuse, just nodded as if it made sense and finally stood. Except standing was harder than it had any right to be. The adrenaline was gone and every deep and surface ache was making itself known and he couldn't quite keep his feet under him.

Len knew he was proud. Not arrogant or prideful enough to let it make him stupid, not when he’d seen that get enough people killed over the years, but he had enough pride that it smarted that he was about to face-plant on the floor of the med bay and probably have to go right back under Gideon’s healing glow for getting his teeth knocked in.

But the floor never met his face. Instead, warm—too warm, always too warm—hands on his shoulders caught him and propped him up until his knees remembered their job. That smarted his pride too, but it wasn’t so much that as his surprise that made him flinch. Len wasn’t used to be touched by people who weren’t trying to hurt him.

He swallowed that thought as his legs gained their strength, locked eyes with Mick, knowing his own were a little wide. Mick’s eyes narrowed by just a fraction and he dropped his arms without comment.

Len hunched in on himself again, glanced away from Mick indecipherable expression.  

He didn’t know where things stood between them. Didn’t know what they were, or what they were doing. They weren’t friends, and he didn’t know that they ever had been except that Mick was the closest thing to a friend he’d ever known. If they’d been friends, they weren’t now, not yet, maybe not ever. Everything hurt too deep, his own betrayal cut too much, he knew. They might never get past wherever, whatever they were now.

But he didn’t know what this was, either. Fragile. Something about all this felt fragile, and new. Len was never much good with fresh new things, and Mick was never that careful with fragile ones. But Mick was more controlled and Len… Len was learning, bit by bit with this team, a little bit about being gentle.

“Mick—”

“Save it.”

Len nodded and turned. Smothered how it hurt. Exited the med bay like he didn’t care. Wished for his swagger, but had to settle for the slow walk that came from injury and exhaustion. He ignored the turn-off to the galley, figuring he’d eat in the morning.

But Mick turned.

Len felt something in him go cold for a second, but he kept walking, forced himself to keep walking. It wasn’t a moment, had never been a ‘moment’. It didn’t pass him by because it didn’t exist. Mick was just turning away because he had better things to do than walk Len the short length of hall left between here and his bunk.

Len stopped pretending he had the energy to stand up straight though, let out a sigh and forced one foot in front the other around the next bend. He was alone anyway, so he paused for just a second, let his shoulders slump as he took a second to try to catch his breath.

He jolted, startled when there was suddenly a hand on his arm. Mick’s hand. He should have been paying more attention to his surroundings but Mick was so much _quieter_ than he used to be. The hand felt like a brand, so warm, always so warm. Not quite a tug, it was...steady, a gentle pressure that got his feet moving again. He didn’t complain that Mick was guiding him the remaining ten steps to his bunk as if he thought Len was gonna’ keel over any second. He didn’t like being viewed as someone who couldn’t take care of himself. But Mick was solid and Len was tired.

He wondered why Mick came back. He didn’t ask.

His bunk looked the same as it ever did—stark. The video image of the ‘outside world’ that displayed on his screen was a glacier. He wasn’t sure if Gideon was teasing him with that, since he had just told her to pick something random. It had stuck, and it had secretly delighted his sense of humor. Mick had just snorted when he’d seen it the first time.

Len wasn’t surprised when Mick half-deposited him on his bed. Any pretense of arguing with Mick had gone out the door when Len stumbled back in the med bay. Then Mick dropped his jacket on the bed next to him and produced two bars of rations from his pocket and it finally clicked in Len’s foggy mind why Mick had disappeared in the hall.

Len wasn’t sure whether to be touched or insulted that Mick thought he needed to feed Len too.

“If you’re gonna’ feed me that crap, you might as well’ve finished me off,” he grumbled, taking one of them anyway.

Mick grunted. “You’re trying hard enough to finish the job yourself.”

A bottle of water appeared from one of the other pockets of Mick’s jacket and Len didn’t have a comeback. He took it without comment, leaning forward to take a few small sips and eat, while he concentrated on not breathing too deeply. Or moving. Or thinking about things between him and Mick. When the ration bar finished, he glanced up at the other man and then away.

Mick had no reason not to go, no pretense left, but Len didn’t know how to ask him to stay. Wasn’t sure he would be able to suffer through the rejection of being rebuffed. So he said nothing.

 

[ … ]

 

Leonard Snart was the most frustrating sunnova bitch Mick had ever met. He kept waiting for Snart to drop the act, to stop being a jackass for one second. It didn’t happen. Of course it didn’t—Snart didn’t know how to drop a front unless he was on the edge of not being able to kill someone. Mick knew what that was like.

Just looking at him was painful. His red and purple bruises, the way he winced reaching for the water, chewed slow like his jaw was killing him, the way he moved so carefully, as if he could barely keep himself upright. But he carried on, stubborn and unwilling to give in to the pain.

It was hard to figure out what emotion he wanted to land on. The ground kept shifting under him —Heatwave, Chronos, Mick—and he was tired of it. Tired of thinking he had something steady only to feel off kilter every time he turned the corner.

Mick was exhausted, and looking down at the battered face of the same punk kid he knew back when they were kids, nothing more, the same bruises that a fourteen year old was sporting as he looked down the blade of a shank and Mick couldn’t help his hairpin trigger from going off and throwing punches—

Looking down at Snart just made the ground feel like it was moving again under his feet. So he did the only thing that made any sense, and sat down on the bed beside the other man.

After a minute of silence, he offered, “You’re a jackass.”

Leonard snorted and dropped the empty water bottle to the ground, kicked it across the room. He was leaning forward just a bit, elbows on his thighs. “I know.”

Mick nodded. “So am I.”

“Not news to me.”

“So why can’t I kill you, Snart?”

He heard Leonard take in a breath next to him, but didn’t look. Mick was staring straight ahead.  

“Same reason I can’t kill you, maybe.”

“Oh, and what’s that?” This oughtta’ be good.

“Because you’re my friend, Mick.”

He wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t expecting the pained, sad, too-close-to-tears sound in Leonard's voice. It made something in his own gut, his throat, tighten. He wanted to distance himself from this, not sure he was ready to forgive even if he wanted to.

“We don’t have hearts, remember?” Cruel, quick. Len drew in a sharp breath and ended up coughing, then groaning. Hurting Len was the only thing he seemed capable of, and he wasn't even trying.

“I felt like crap…” Ragged, weak. Mick hated this, but he had to push. He had to know why.

“Leaving me to die?”

“No. I felt like _hell_ leaving you behind…” His voice was raw in a way that made Mick’s insides twist. He glanced to the side, at Snart, the tense, pained draw to the profile of his face. “I felt like crap every… every day since then, Mick. Knowing I…”

“What?”

“Knowing I failed you.”

“We were partners.”

“I know.” His voice cracked and Mick’s hands balled tight into fists, the urge to comfort roaring inside. He was shaking, just a bit, and tried to stop it. “I’m sorry, Mick.”

Fuck it. The broken words were too much. Mick reached out. Snart flinched. He swallowed and slowed his hand. He wasn’t aiming to hurt. He reached for Len's back and rested his hand there, flexed his fingers against the ribbed fabric of the other man’s sweater.

After a tense second, Mick started to rub circles into his back. Careful, slow at first. He didn’t know the last time anyone had done that for him, but he could almost bet it was even longer for Snart, who wasn’t even prone to the occasional girlfriend in the way Mick was, too closed off. But instead of freaking out like Mick half-expected, Leonard melted into the touch. It was just moments before he was leaning into Mick’s side, under his arm, letting out long and slow, shaky breaths.

“Pain?” Mick asked, noticing how hunched over Snart was even now. Leonard murmured a yes, and Mick adjusted their position. Cracked ribs, broken ribs. It didn't matter, they both hurt like bitches and made breathing a pain.

"Missed you," Len murmured after a few more minutes of quiet, his voice soft and slurred. The medicine was finally kicking in, loosening the other man’s body so that he was slumped heavily on Mick.

"Me too, buddy," Mick said after a second. He felt awkward, but voicing this felt right. It felt true. Part of the rage that had been directed at Len had been because of the sudden sense that he'd lost him; lost him to an ideal, to a pipe dream of heroism, to other people. They sat in silence again, the only sound was their breathing. Mick's was steady, but Leonard’s was uneven and jagged.

He realized after a minute that it wasn't just from the broken ribs. Leonard was crying. Silently, between his shaky breaths, but there were tears on his cheeks. Real, honest to god tears. Not many, and Len, with half-lidded eyes, barely even seemed aware of them. Of all the things Mick had expected, he hadn't expected a weepy Len. This was a new one for them. But then, all of this was new to them.

He should probably say sorry too. He wasn’t good at that, though. Not that Snart was – hell it took a beating and being drugged up to get it out of him – but Mick was worse. But maybe all this had been an apology. He tried to tell himself that watching out for Len would make up for almost killing him, and rubbed his thumb softly over Leonard’s shoulder now, where his hand was resting.

Time passed. Time wasn’t something Mick paid much attention to, anymore, but it passed. His side got warm from Snart leaning against it, face against the inside of his shoulder, but Mick didn't stir until he noticed Snart’s breathing had evened out, a bit louder, deeper. Mick glanced down and saw that Len's eyes had slipped shut at some point. The tears had mostly dried. He’d never know if they were wrung out of Snart from pain, or exhaustion, or this—whatever this was. Probably some of all three.

He moved eventually, awkward, trying not to dump Snart on the floor as the younger man started when Mick lowered him to the bed.

“Easy. Just layin' you down. Get your shoes off," Mick commanded in a low rumble as he pulled the blankets down and helped Snart shift so he could lay on his back.

Len groaned quietly at the pain in his ribs until he was all stretched out, sighing with relief once he was down. He tried to kick off his shoes, shift a little to be more comfortable, managing to fail at even that, limbs slack and clumsy from the meds. Mick had gone this far, might as well go all the way in taking care of Snart, since he was doing a piss poor job of doing it for himself. He took Snart's shoes off and set them beside the bed, nudged at the prone form until he thought the other man's breathing was better.

"Lights low,” Mick whispered to the computer console. The lights dimmed to a faint glow. Snart hated the full dark. Mick had never asked why, and he wasn't about to now, even though he'd probably get a more honest answer, what with Len doped up and exhausted.

“Mick?” he mumbled, when Mick moved off the bed. It was soft, and a little vulnerable, and so wrong for them. This time Len's vulnerability didn't piss him off. Mick didn’t bother to put any gravel in his voice.

“Just going to my bunk, Lenny.” A nickname as dusty as his memories of a life he lived too long ago. But it was enough, because he smiled when it came out of his mouth, and he knew that Leonard would hear it in his voice. He covered him up with the blanket, patted his shoulder. “I’ll be back in the morning to drag your sorry ass to the med bay again.”

The half-groan half-chuckle was enough to tell Mick that Snart understood. They’d be okay. They were okay. Whatever they were, it was gonna’ be okay.

He moved out of the room with a last glance back. Len's eyes were already closed, his chest rising and falling more rapidly than normal. Mick watched him breathe, checking to make sure the other man's rib cage was expanding well enough that it would be safe to leave him in that position. A small tug in Mick's gut tried to convince him to stay, but he wasn't sure it was needed, and things were still delicate between them. Len was out, or nearly there, at least, and would hopefully stay down the rest of the night. He didn't need Mick staring at him like some weird stalker while he slept.

He headed back to the showers, finally, still grimy but somehow lighter anyway. The hot water, almost scalding, had always helped clear his senses. He turned the water as hot as it would go and stripped out of his dirtied, blooded clothes. Staring down at them on the floor, part of him was almost tempted to haul them back on, go back to Len's room, hoist him over his shoulder, steal the jump ship, and head back to 2016 and leave this mess behind. Most of him knew it was pointless, that running from the Hunters was a waste of time, and that Snart wouldn't let him get away with it anyway.

“Gideon?”

“Yes Mr. Rory?”

“Lemme’ know when Snart wakes up. And check on his vitals. He shows signs of distress, I wanna’ know about it.”

“Yes Mr. Rory.”

He stepped into the shower and enjoyed the heat as it seeped into his muscles. As Chronos, there had only ever been thoughts of revenge, or his duty. Anything else was barely given a flicker of thought. The connection with the Time Masters—or rather, his disconnect with his life—had weakened and vanished. He wouldn't ever be the same as before. He knew that deep down. But he felt like maybe he could take parts of his life back.

After, finally clean and back in his bunk - unchanged but disused since he’d been marooned - he was settled on staying, of sticking to Snart’s side this time. There were other plans, other things he’d learned as Chronos. If nothing else, the team he seemed stuck with were tough sons of bitches, and they’d put up a fight. They might die trying to fight the Hunters and whatever else the Time Masters sent their way, but they'd die standing. And he would die with them.

He laid back in his bed and thought of 2016, of the Vanishing Point, of how dumb it was to try and change one of the most momentous forces in human history and how stupid Rip Hunter was for trying. But mostly, he thought of Leonard.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So apparently this is what happens when a late night chat after an episode of Legends takes on a life of it's own? :) Hope you enjoyed reading it!


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